


calm me down (use your teeth, and your mouth)

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: (In that it focuses mainly on Dean), (underplayed), Bunker Fic, Canon Compliant up to 11 x 22, Character Study, Fix-It, Fluff, M/M, No Mary Winchester, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Romance, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-13
Updated: 2019-06-13
Packaged: 2020-05-02 13:03:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19199386
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: They’ve been all over the U.S. in their years of hunting, but as of late, the two brothers stick to Kansas.





	calm me down (use your teeth, and your mouth)

They’ve been all over the U.S. in their years of hunting, but as of late, the two brothers stick to Kansas.  


It is a new concept, the amount of space between the Winchester brothers and those they care about. Mainly, because there is now quite little of it. Charlie is only a forty minute drive away, in a one-bedroom apartment that smells like cigarettes and mixed spices, though she has managed to make it her own. They offered her sanctuary at the bunker, of course, but she had gently declined. Dean didn’t blame her. He appreciates having a place to call home— truly, he does, but it feels, in every sense of the word, haunted. The irony of such a thought is not lost on Dean, and as far as the brothers know, there aren’t actually any ghosts in the bunker. But the place feels haunted nonetheless. 

Memories coat the walls like a thick layer of paint. There are pieces of its previous inhabitants everywhere you look: a family photo tucked in the corner of a storage room. Chess pieces scattered beneath the fridge. An old guitar lying dusty and unused among the corpses of long-decomposed creatures. All these things speak to the fact that Dean and Sam live in a place that does not truly belong to them. No matter how they fill the space, it never fully relinquishes the feeling of a home long abandoned.  


Jody, Donna, Claire and Alex aren’t far either— only a peaceful, three and a half hour drive away. Every second Sunday Sam and Dean drive up to their house to dine around a tightly-packed table and indulge in wonderful uneventfulness. The house is cramped with four women living in its walls, especially when you add in two full grown men, but not uncomfortably so. It is full in a warm way, full in the way you feel when you’ve eaten a filling meal. Claire behaves better when they are around, and while Alex is still quiet, she has become more accustomed to Sam and Dean’s presence. Jody and Donna are as kind as ever, of course, and the house brims with happiness more so every time the brothers visit.  


They and Charlie are really the only family they have left. There is another, but he is no human— an angel with an upturned collar, worn down shoes, and an icy stare. But he doesn’t matter, he isn’t part of the equation. He has always been both close to Dean, and far away. He could appear in the blink of an eye, but chooses not to. He is neither a long drive away or a short one. The space between them is inconceivable in both its vastness and its smallness.  


…

So, they stick to Kansas. It is nearly winter. Leaves cling tightly to their branches, desperate for their last moments of life before falling to the ground. It isn’t cold in Lebanon, not yet. Instead, it’s just windy. It does not rain, but the sky still takes it upon itself to look as if it is about to rain at any moment— as if precipitation pushes at the clouds, a water level rising above the dam, begging to burst through and drown the people below. It’s light out, but a consistent, gray light, as clouds cover the sky in its entirety but filter the sun through. Dean comes to associate the grayness and the dew that dribbles off of leaves in the morning with an emotion adjacent to contentment. And it is beneath a gray sky, leaning against the impala in the Bunker’s makeshift driveway that Dean turns to shallow introspection. For, though they are nearing happiness every day that he and Sam work to establish their mark on the world, true contentment eludes them. Or eludes Dean, at least. He grasps at it when it nears him, but as the newly brown leaves fall to the ground, contentment escapes Dean’s clutches again and again; trampled upon by vibrantly patterned rain boots on the sidewalk. Something’s missing. Dean Winchester is doing something wrong, to, he thinks, no one’s surprise but his own.  


Mournful as he is, he does not sweep all gratitude for what he does have to the side. While frustrating, a puzzle missing one piece is much more satisfying to look at than scrambled, disconnected pieces. Or perhaps it's the other way around. Dean doesn’t bother to think any harder on it.  


Sam walks out of the bunker, pushing the doorstop (which is less of a doorstop and more of a heavy rock they found in the bushes) out of the way with his heel. The heavy metal door slams shut, weight and gravity working together to create a deafening “Clang!” Sam cringes and offers Dean the coffee that he only vaguely remembers making. The slam of the door rings in his ears as the plasticky, off-yellow coffee mug seems to hang in midair before him. Beams crash from the ceiling, he grabs the limp figure in front of him and pulls them out of the way of the collapsing ceiling. A gunshot echoes in a brightly colored hallway, empty but for the bullet racing towards him. Electricity crackles as winged figures appear around him, encircling him. Pale bark peels to reveal dark flesh beneath it, bleeding through the knots and cracks that marr its surface.  


Dean takes the coffee mug, but he knows he took too long to do so.  


Gratitude curls in his chest like a cat, purring and kneading Dean’s ribcage, when Sam doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he walks to the passenger door and grasps at the handle clumsily, struggling to keep a hold of a stack of books, a roadmap and his laptop. Dean rolls his eyes and pulls his own door open, leaving his brother to spill into the car by himself.  


Sam thinks a group of vampires have made camp all too close to a town near the border opposite to Lebanon. Dean thinks it is ridiculous, they lack the evidence for more than two vampires, though there is evidence for more than just one. He’d tried to push for calling a gal’ only an hour out of town who he thought could take care of it, but Sam had pushed back, rambling on about how it would be good for them (read: Dean) to get some fresh air. They (read: Dean) also need to pop into the closest doctor’s office with some newly-faked medical history papers and refill Dean’s dwindling supply of testosterone. The last point had forced Dean to comply.  


...Three vampires is basically the same as two. Dean refuses to call three a group. He had been right, damn it.  


…

Dean brushes dust off of a pale green folder labeled in a language he doesn’t understand. He throws it somewhere to his left, making a lazy mental note to have Sam translate it.  


He’s been tasked with organizing a room Sam had come upon deep in the underbelly of the bunker. Dust fills every crack, pocket and corner of the room, and Dean wonders if you can develop asthma in your forties. A smell fills the room too— not especially strong, but just strong enough to make you unnerved— like dry earth, and the rotting of things too small to see. He’d unearthed a nest of what had once been rats about an hour ago, now only scentless, decomposed flesh and tiny dry bones. Dean had gagged at the sight, horrified, even though his job forces him to see much more gory things. Nonetheless, he’d pushed a bin of roughly organized papers back, in front of the hideous sight.  


Dean’s organizing was more like loose sorting, but was still the least he could do to aid Sam in the endless and increasingly boring task of interpreting the scraps of the Men of Letters. Their methods of organizing had proved indecipherable, even to Sam, so they’d reluctantly started to devise their own method, in lew of anything better to do. Regardless, anything was really, probably better than Dean moping on the couch, more often than not with whiskey in his hands, and watching Sam clean.  
The door opens behind him.  


Dean doesn’t think, doesn’t breathe. He does not connect that it might be Sam. He only grabs a nearby bin, heavy with miscellaneous items, and raises it while spinning around, ready to slam it down on the head of the intruder.  


It’s not Sam.  


It’s Cas.  


The bin hangs above Dean’s head, disconnected and frozen in time, just like the coffee mug, weeks earlier. He drops it from four feet in the air and it lands, thankfully not spilling its contents, but thudding loudly.  


Cas isn’t human, but he’s no angel. Not anymore. A lot changed when Amara snapped her fingers, with the best of intentions, trying to grant Dean happiness as a payment in return for the faux-therapy session he’d arranged between her and God. As a result, Charlie had returned to life. Sam’s carpal tunnel had disappeared. And she had “fixed Cas,” for Dean, though what it entailed he still wasn’t sure. What he did know was that after losing his grace, and getting it back, it hadn’t quite fit right. He’d ended up a bit off. Not so angelic. Too much time without it, too much time with a soul, warping him so that he couldn’t contain the grace as he had for millions of years before. Thankfully, when she changed him, she hadn’t disconnected him from Heaven. He still had powers, still had a connection, but was different. No longer even angel adjacent. He slept and ate and drank and felt pain just as Sam and Dean did. Different, but in the same vein as ever, he had left them in a shuffle of feathers and only a brush of fingers on Dean’s shoulders as a goodbye— some things never change.  


Pulled from his glassy stare, Dean glanced down at the bin on the ground, and coughed, hunching over as his lungs tried to push out the dust that had entered the air when he dropped the bin. “Sorry about that. Thought you were an intruder.” He rasps, straightening up from his brief coughing fit.  


“I might’ve been Sam. I doubt any creature or intruder could play its way into this place.” Cas remarked.  


The prideful creature in his stomach hisses and Dean replies, foolishly and defensively: “Its happened before… Besides, you could have knocked.” It’s cruel of him. Dean knows damn well Cas is still, and will likely always be, unaccustomed to the things expected by humans— things like knocking before entering.  


Cas ignores Dean’s defensiveness, instead glancing around the room. “Sam said you were cleaning. Would you like some help? Or…” Dean, in return, ignores Cas’s meager offer and steps forward, pushed by some mysterious force— a boldness utterly unfamiliar to him. He wraps Cas in a gentle hug, and lets go of his pride and his cowardice. It had been six months since he last saw Cas, and with his senses gathered back together after being scattered by surprise, overwhelming happiness brims within Dean.  


Cas sets a hand on Dean’s back in acknowledgment, but doesn’t hug back. It’s an unsurprising disappointment.  


“Where have you been?”  


“Away. You?”  


“Kansas.”  


…  


Castiel stays at the bunker. Dean spends his time on the edge of his seat, waiting for Cas to announce his departure— or worse, for him to leave without notice.  


He doesn’t.  


Dean relaxes somewhat. The bunker feels less empty.  


…

Sleep is not necessary for survival, for Cas, but is certainly necessary for Dean to put up with him. Cas is not a morning person— and while Dean sleeps until ten when he can afford it, Cas slumbers well past one in the afternoon whenever possible. He eats breakfast around the time Dean bothers to make himself lunch, so they usually eat together. Sam is usually occupied with a cup of coffee and boxes upon boxes of disorganized, unintelligible files that had belonged to the men of letters, so Dean doesn’t see him much. It’s okay. Castiel feels like enough.  


In this, there is domesticity. But it morphs into something else, something more tender, more delicate. Something that could shatter into a million separate, sharp pieces given the wrong move.  


Specifically, it morphs as Dean immerses Cas into his favorite movies, shows, music, and even a few books, (though he’d be loathe to admit it.) He uses movies, which make up most of what he wants to show Cas, as something to play in the background while they organize. A convincing excuse he tells both himself and Cas. But every time, without fail, he devolves into explaining the movie’s convoluted plot to Cas, or explaining the meaning behind certain lyrics of a song, or reciting the entire history of a band or actor, instead of doing any real work. And, while Castiel pays some attention to the media, Dean can tell he pays more attention to Dean’s words. It’s odd, but not uncomfortably so. He appreciates it.  


So amidst their lackluster efforts at helping Sam fix up the bunker, Dean and Cas become more comfortable with each other. It’s not something outrageous; when two people spend time together they tend to become more comfortable with each other. Yet, it surprises Dean. While Castiel was never cold or cruel, he was always distant, and Dean didn’t expect to really further a friendship with the (ex) angel. But regardless of his expectations, or lack thereof, they become closer.  


Cas finally loses the trenchcoat at both Sam and Dean’s urging, and instead switches between the same two sweaters— a dull purplish one and a grey one. They could fit Sam comfortably, but are oversized on Cas, hanging off of his lithe, almost boney, unchanging frame. Dean appreciates the change but a small, selfish part of him growls at the lost potential of seeing Cas in something a bit more fitting.  


To get the sweaters they’d had to venture into the nearest Target, which they had found out, horrifyingly enough, was an hour away. Nonetheless they had made the drive, Dean hanging his hand out the window to feel the cool air outside, with a reluctant Cas in the backseat. He’d whined, like a child, that there was nothing wrong with his trenchcoat. It was reliable! But both brothers had exchanged a glance and manhandled Cas into the back of the Impala. When they got there, Sam, the complete traitor, had handed Cas off to Dean so he could browse the produce section. Castiel proved unendingly distractible, often asking Dean what certain things were for. He was dumbfounded by the sheer variety of kitchen utensils, and wouldn’t stop pawing at everything they walked by. Eventually, though, they’d left with a two sweaters and a pair of sweatpants for cas, and a lot of vegetables. Dean marked it as a success in his book, minus the vegetables.  


Regardless of which sweater he is wearing, Dean has formed a habit of tugging Cas with him by hooking his fingers under Cas’s sweater, or in his sleeve, and a few times beneath his collar— calloused fingers brushing against gentle collarbones— to make Cas move. His dristractable nature extended past the kitchen aisle, and Dean had to constantly tug on him to get him moving. He does this on cases, mainly, but it migrates to how they interact in private, as well.  


It turns out that, even with thick sweaters, Cas is an easily chilled man. Dean silently thinks its because he lacks meat on his bones, but doesn’t say anything, lest it drive Cas to warm up in any way besides pressing against Dean’s side, resting his head on Dean’s shoulder and breathing gently, listening attentively to Dean’s droning.  


…

“Fuck you! How could you do this to me, Dean Winchester?”  


“Hey, it’s not my fault Mr. Caesar got your order wrong.” Dean peers over at Charlie’s pizza— tomato sauce, cheese, and a few slices of pineapple. No ham. “You can have some of my pepperoni.” Offers Cas.  


Charlie smiles but waves him off, and, making an exaggerated sad face, takes a bite of her pizza. “‘S okay Cas. I can get all the meat I need by myself.” She mumbles through a mouthful of cheese. Dean coughs a little on his own slice and Charlie snickers, while Cas looks lost and Sam shoots his brother an exasperated glance.  


The four of them are sitting in the makeshift lounge— a couch, a chair, and an ancient coffee table, all arranged crookedly in front of a discount TV that Dean had harassed Sam into buying. The menu of an old, boring looking french film is paused, displaying a woman lounging on a chair, loose hands pointing as if unintentionally towards the “PLAY MOVIE,” option. Sam intends to show it to Charlie, claiming “At a minimum, you’ll like all scantily clad women in it.” And while usually that would interest Dean, too, he fully intends to zone out during its entirety and play with the hem of Cas’s gray sweater, which has started to unravel at its left sleeve. Cas’s wrists are far more captivating than any movie, Dean’s opinion. More than Dirty Dancing, more than Star Wars— more interesting than anything else Dean has set his eyes upon, in that moment  


And that’s exactly what he does for about three quarters of the movie, until Castiel eventually notices Dean picking at his sleeve— a weak rouse to allow Dean to brush his thumb against Cas’s skin— and gently pulls his hand away.  


“You’re going to pull apart my sweater, Dean.” He remarks with a gentle look.  


“You need a new one anyway…” He replies. A childish response, yes, but he does take hold of himself, and drags his fingers away.  


Before he can rest it in his own lap, Cas grasps Dean’s fingers and laces them with his own. Dean hides a smile in Cas’s shoulder, while Sam and Charlie argue about whether or not a character Dean can’t quite make out is a milf or not.  


…

Five months pass.  


Dean wakes in the dark and he cannot breathe. His blankets are suffocating and heavy, as if a car rests on top of him. Dean’s nightmares about Hell are his least favorite. They take bits and pieces from memories he has long shoved into a dark, hidden place in his heart, and warps them to be unimaginably worse than they already were. Even as the imaginary weight lifts from his chest and he starts to calm down, dull yellow eyes seem to look his way from the corner of the room— waiting for him to relax, so their owner can pounce.  


Usually he pops some leftover pain medication and lulls into an unsatisfying, but dreamless slumber. However, the sound of rattling chains and liquid dripping steadily onto cold floors play again and again in his head, akin to a scratched CD repeating itself, refusing to melt away with the rest of his nightmare. So instead, he relinquishes any hope of falling back asleep and pads quietly past Sam’s room and into the “meeting room,” where more drinking occurs than meetings. Before he can search high and low for leftover whiskey or try to find Sam’s ambien, that he tries his best to hide from Dean, a pale hand catches his eye. Glancing into the makeshift lounge, now decorated with one other, mismatched chair, he spots Cas on the couch, watching early morning news on silent, eyes glazed over.  


“You’re up early.”  


He realizes immediately that breaking the silence so abruptly was a bad idea when Cas starts violently and grabs the TV remote, eyes no longer glazed over, an arm pulled back— ready to lob the remote right at Dean.  


He ducks instinctively but there is no thump or crash to indicate a remote hitting the wall behind him at a hundred miles an hour. So he looks back up, and is relieved to see Cas gingerly setting the remote back down. “Sorry. I did not expect anyone else to be up.”  


“Neither did I. You okay?”  


Cas shrugs and turns back towards the TV, leaving Dean to approach slowly. Before he can say anything particularly crude or insensitive, Cas says, quietly, “I did not dream before. It is a disorienting feeling, seeing things from your past placed before you, and viewing them through such a corrupted lense. I dislike it.”  


Dean sits down next to him, giving Cas space, but not a lot of it. He stretches his arm behind Cas, so it rests on the back of the couch, almost touching his neck. “You can have good dreams, you know.”  


Cas frowns. “I don’t believe I’ve ever had a dream that I enjoyed. I suppose the pool of enjoyable things my mind has to draw from is rather limited.”  


Dean tastes something bitter and acidic at that, and strength both fills and leaves him. He relaxes his arm and lets it fall against Cas, curling him into half of an embrace. Cas doesn’t resist, only adjusts himself so that his head lies against Dean’s chest. It makes the creature resting in his ribcage purr deeply, and twitch its tail, creating a fluttering within his stomach.  


They sit in silence for a bit, until Dean gets tired of the news and switches it to the cooking channel. He still keeps the volume muted— much more interested in the quiet, rasping breaths of the man curled into his side. Cas’s elbow digs a bit into Dean’s chest, and he regrets not at least putting on a bra. Furthermore, his ability to hold any position as complex-adjacent as theirs for very long has fled in age. Yet, he stays the course, determined to enjoy every second he can. Eventually, he does shift, but makes sure that Cas’s limp head stays on his chest, where he can gently press his lips against his forehead. Butterfly kisses, barely there, fleeting and tender.  


All the sounds around him blend together. Breathing. The air conditioner. The humming of electricity. Until Dean can no longer hear anything, too immersed in his own thoughts, and his eyes close, heavy and chapped. He floats in and out of consciousness, not wanting to lose sight of his ex-angel pressed against him, not wanting to delve back into the messy cutting room floor of his brain, but also desperate to give into sleep. He half-watches five episodes of Martha Stewart’s Cooking Classes before giving up.  


He is calm, with the weight on top of him. And all fear melts away as he gives up, and falls into the warm embrace of sleep.  


…

Cas proves to be better than any medication. They don’t sleep alone again.

**Author's Note:**

> consider listening to [my playlist for them](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/2h1VYChHyzCIZuLt4LSTth). title from Calm Me Down by Mother Mother.


End file.
